


Memory Lapse

by GingerShambles



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:33:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerShambles/pseuds/GingerShambles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some morning’s coffee is necessary to make sense of the world.<br/>Some morning’s coffee is what makes the world stop making sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory Lapse

You were having a nightmare, or at least you think you were having a nightmare. The memory of whatever dream you were having slips away from you as you are shaken awake to the sound of your name.

“Church! Church! Wake up Church!”

There is someone shaking your arm. Try as you might to ignore the voice and go back to sleep, potential nightmares be damned, the shaking evolves into pulling and soon you are sitting upright on your bed groggy, disoriented, and confused. You open your eyes wincing at the brightness of the room, looking up at the man who so rudely woke you from your slumber.

Your brain isn’t quite functioning properly yet so you simply stare at the tall man tugging on your arm attempting to remember who it is. _**Caboose**_ your brain provides, and that’s about as much information about the smiling man as your brain is offering up in its current groggy state. _**Fucking hell**_. You think, rubbing your aching temple with the hand not currently being tugged on by Caboose. _**I need coffee**_.

“Come on Church” the man says as you pat the bedside table in a blind search for your glasses but before you can locate them, you are being dragged off the bed and out of the room by the wrist as Caboose skips ahead, happily pulling you along.

“I made coffee! Actually Tucker made coffee because he said if I did it I would mess it up and the kitchen would catch fire all on its own again.” You still aren't totally sure what’s going on but this Caboose character definitely said there was coffee so you allow yourself to be pulled along by the friendly giant of a man, even, as he leads you through unfamiliar hallways. Maybe the coffee would kick start your brain into actual functioning properly or, even better, lessen the pain of your headache.

You’re pulled around a corner; Caboose is not really paying attention and going a bit too fast for your brain to handle, causing you to awkwardly clip your shoulder on the corner. You hold back a swear as you enter what is very clearly a kitchen. A man in a teal T-shirt sits at the table. He looks up from his Lucky Charms as you enter, gives you a curt nod, before returning his attention to the sugary cereal. _**Tucker**_ , your brain helpfully provides. Once again too groggy to provide any other information to go along with the name.

You can smell the coffee now which means your brain should be functioning again soon. Caboose releases his vice like grip on your arm and goes off to pour you a mug. The mug in question is light blue with the words “ _Best Leader, Best Friend_ ” in darker blue, hand painted, writing.  

Caboose manages to get mug from the counter to your eager hands only spilling it a little on the way over. You stand there for a moment letting the heat from the mug seep into you tired fingers, breathing in deep and enjoying the smell, it might be shitty military issue coffee, but it was still coffee. Tucker looks up from his cereal once more.

“If you want the sugar it’s in the cupboard above the sink dude.”

“I like my coffee straight” you assure him, but now he is looking at you strangely.

“I thought...” he begins but soon trails off returning to his food, deciding, you suppose, that arguing over the best way to take coffee isn’t worth his time “whatever floats your boat” you shrug taking a sip of your coffee hoping it will wash away your growing headache and the groggy confusion that still lingers. You're still not quite sure where you are or why.

“We can't float a boat here Tucker. There are no boats!” Caboose smiles down at you “Right Church?. You hear Tucker groan from the table.

“Seriously Caboose you got to stop doing that. It’s creepy as fuck. His name is Washington. Church is gon-” he doesn't get to finish that thought; the rest of his sentence cut off as you drop the mug in shook.

It takes you a moment to register the crash and the hot coffee that splashes over your bare feet. You remain frozen not even moving your feet out of the puddle of steaming coffee and ceramic shards. Washington. _Your name is Washington_.  How did you forget that?

Suddenly you feel nauseous; the taste of the coffee still lingers in your mouth. It is far too bitter and you gag, stumbling forward as if it were a poison working its way into your blood. You are so desperate for something to support yourself, something to anchor you to reality, that you barely notice the pricks of pain as shards of the destroyed mug imbed into the souls of your feet. You find the wall, planting your hands firmly on it trying to remember how to breath as you rest your forehead against its cool surface.

“Whoa, are you okay Wash? Caboose help me out. Shit. I thought Doc said he fixed him” You barely hear him over the noise in your head. There’s so much noise. All of the memories screaming at you. The memories that aren't yours. _They aren't yours_. You have to remember that.

You begin muttering a mantra of sorts trying to keep yourself grounded to reality. It’s barely a whisper but at this point, you could care less if you are overheard “I am not Leonard Church I am David. I am not Epsilon. I am Agent Washington. I am not Alpha; I don’t drink my coffee straight. I take it with 6 sugars” York used to make fun of you for that, said you were ruining perfectly good coffee. You told him that “perfectly good coffee” tasted like ass without sugar. You remember that. You remember how a week later he had somehow filled all the sugar packets in the mess hall with salt.

Cling on to that memory like it is the only thing keeping you floating above the waves of memories in the harsh and unforgiving sea that is your mind since Epsilon. Remember South punching York in the dick because he forgot that while you might have used the most sugar you certainly weren’t the only one who used it.

Concentrate on the good memories. The ones that are most definitely yours. The ones where everyone was still breathing and happy. Use those memories as a shield to block out the memories of a woman you never met, of Alison smiling at you and not saying goodbye

_"But don't say goodbye. I hate goodbyes."_

No.

Stop.

Don’t remember her face; instead remember the prank war that happened between South and York. Remember how York’s hair had ended up pink for a week after South had replaced his shampoo with dye. Remember how South had been locked out of her room for three hours in nothing but a towel because York had changed her lock code. Remember North having to eventually put a stop to it all after he found out South had gotten Florida to acquire for her a crate full of very illegally fireworks. Remember how on the following shore leave you all went to an abandoned field and set them off under the dark starless sky of a planet you had never even heard of before. Remember the colours lighting up the sky and the sound of laughter. Remember your friends smiling.

Breathe.

Allow yourself to leave the memories and come back to reality. You feel a hand rubbing your back and hear Tucker asking if you can hear him. You wait until your breathing has steadied before you answer him, brushing the hand away.

“I’m okay now” you say standing up straight again. You can tell from the look on his face that he doesn't believe you. “It won’t happen again” You promise, looking around the room. “Where’s Caboose?” You ask, hoping to change the subject and wondering just how long you let the memories overwhelm you this time.

“He didn’t need to see whatever that was” Tucker says, looking at you like he’s worried you're going to break if he says the wrong thing “I think he's painting a new mug for Church or something.”  An awkward silence follows and you're not sure what to say. You have only been with the Blues for a week now and it’s hard to tell where you stand with them. Rather than talking you simply sigh and grab a broom from the corner and begin sweeping up the shattered mug. The coffee has dried by this point which speaks volumes for just how long you were lost in the memories.

Tucker just stands there watching you work like he doesn't know what to do with you. You want to tell him that he doesn't have to do anything; that you have been dealing with it perfectly fine before you even knew about the Reds and Blues. You want to tell him that most mornings it only takes a minute for you to convince yourself your name is not Leonard Church, but you know how it will sound if you say that so you don't. Instead you clean in silence until he leaves; muttering something about checking to make sure Caboose hasn’t crazy glued his hand to his face again.

You breath out a sigh of frustration as he goes, ashamed that you let someone see you like that. It won’t happen again. You promise yourself you won’t believe in the wrong name for so long ever again, that you will remain in control. You tell yourself the only reason it happened today was because Caboose was there when you woke up using the wrong name before you had a chance to remind yourself what the right one is.

 

You sleep with the door locked after that.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Basically this is the extension of an anon ask I sent ChurbooseAnon back in November (churbooseanon.tumblr.com/post/103386922029/its-7-am-and-i-havent-slept-yet-and-i-just). I felt motivated to write something more for it Monday night so this happened (posting late because life got in the way of me editing the thing) . This is my first attempt at writing a fic so I apologize for any amateur mistakes I make. any advice/critic is greatly appreciated.


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